


Tu sei quello che stavo aspettando.

by tepidblood



Series: Rozuru Mafia AU [1]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Drugs mention, It's mostly filler characters right now but it will pick up soon., Mild Gore, Murder, Rozuru 30's AU, Rozuru Mafia AU, Violence, You are the one I have been waiting for. [Part 1], death mention, torture mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 12:51:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5291543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tepidblood/pseuds/tepidblood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a new city, it’s a new start, and he’s a newly Made Man; there’s blood on his slacks to prove it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Noticed

**Author's Note:**

> Part of [Eline’s](http://landofshame.tumblr.com) delayed present package. Cross-posted [on tumblr](http://desespeir.tumblr.com/post/106106688182/title-tu-sei-quello-che-stavo-aspettando-you).

He feels dirty.

There’s blood on his clothes, a large amount in fact; enough blood to saturate the fabric and make it cling to his skin. It was cold, out, the moisture of the blood only exaggerating that fact as he panted from heat. There was steam roiling off his form, very faint compared to the wisps of smoke that left the brunette’s mouth that stood behind him. Cigarette smoke was still hotter than he was, even as he shifted and pulled his knife out of his victim’s chest; cigarette smoke, toxic and numbing, was still warmer and more compassionate then him. The brunette does not flinch when he is gestured over to examine the gore, the rough grunt and narrow of blood shot eyes the only critique he receives, and he hopes that means he will get a good review. He needs to make good first impressions; his lean arms were splattered in blood and his hair sweat-plastered to his temples. He cleans his knife on his victim’s pant leg, cocks their hat over their already stiffening look of horror, and slips on the coat that is offered to him. They walk through a puddle as they leave the alley, which he was forced to walk through the deepest part of, and it goes up into his shoe. The water is high enough to catch the bottom of his slack’s leg, which only makes him feel the city’s chill a little bit more. The puddle is stained with blood as they walk off and he has to polish the residue off his shoe that night.

* * *

He remembers that he once thought that he would never have to use an alarm clock again as an adult. He doesn’t remember why he was so _dense_ back then, but he does send a wry frown at that internal image of his teenage self as he is shaken from his sleep. He swats his imaginary head with the same hand that slips out from under his thin blankets and slaps down on top of the ringing bells of his cursed alarm clock. The contraption was old, a remnant of his late teenage years, and a forced gift from his aunt. Her short nails would wind it up every day while he was out at school, making sure the spring was _nice_ and tight, and in turn had warped the poor thing. It would never ring at exactly when he wanted it to, the blasted device typically startling him awake around five to ten minutes before he had intended. It’s meddling had lent partially to his early rising habits, but he still didn’t like it.

His apartment was cool, not cold technically, but cool. There was just enough light for him to ascertain the general area of the hands on his clock, the proud declaration of sometime before five am making him groan. He didn’t like early mornings and he wasn’t fond of cold; it all made him lethargic. The barest gleam of the street lamp that was almost directly outside his apartment’s window was shining from underneath the aging curtains and his cat was snuggled up to his side; he didn’t want to get up. His apartment was tiny, _homey_ by the stretched definition of the word, and not at all prime real estate. It was cheap, the heating was poor, and the bathroom sink leaked; it was absolutely, annoyingly, perfect.

He wears socks to bed, just to help with the chill, and they help keep his feet warm as he slides them out from under the covers and onto the floor. His bedside lamp flickers to life with a few pulls on its chain, the drawer just beneath the surface grinding open as he yanks on the handle, and the light reflects all too dimly on the somewhat shiny side of his gun. The gun is cold to the touch; the weight of it in his palm reminding him of the ache in his shoulder. He touches that spot tenderly, his loose night shirt hiding the bruises from knuckles that spanned the space between his clavicle and the cusp of his shoulder, and his skin throbs in a phantom renewal of pain. He rolls his shoulder, gun still in hand, and Mary stretches out on the bed and yawns. The feline is quick to give him a disapproving sniff for waking her up, her bushy tail brushing the side of his arm as she prodded past, and she eases herself down to the floor as he eases himself up.

He pulls his britches on first, slipping the gun into the back, and starts turning on lights. Mary does not dwaddle, meowing impatiently at him as he shuffles out towards his door, her furry body fluffed up in further annoyance at his untimely behavior. A quick check out in the hall through a crack in the door is interrupted by her paw pulling at the door, the aging feline pushing her way out before he was quite ready, and he sighs as he locks the door behind her. She would go do her catly thing and come back in half an hour, demand breakfast and a belly rub, and then she would go back to bed until he put her outside again. It would be about dawn then, which made him feel a little bit better for kicking her out as he rushes out of the apartment. She was pretty old now if her grey fur was anything to attest to and she had been with him since his parents died; she deserved better.

He wipes at the steam on his bathroom mirror, the thin coating of moisture so scant that it is easy to clear to see his reflection. He didn’t have a lot of hot water and even a quick shower would rapidly turn cold, but he managed. He was definitely awake as he picked up his comb, swiping his long flaxen hair into familiar, parted chunks. He brushes it all back and out of his face, which lets him wash his face again, and his cheeks are rosy as he towels off. The ruddy hue makes his scar stick out just a bit more prominently, the jagged line on his left cheek bone taunting him and his reflection, and he is quick to obscure it. He combs out his hair again, the length of his hair parts linearly at the back of his neck, and the front of the blond locks are swept across to the left side of his face. He doesn’t like the style, he doesn’t like how it cuts down some on his peripheral vision, but it hid the scar; he grew it out like this just to hide the damn thing.

He barely has his breakfast going before there is a scratch on the door, the sound so familiar he ignorantly does not check before he opens the door. Mary slips in between his feet, rubbing herself on his slack clad leg, and meows behind him as he almost shuts the door on his neighbor’s face. It was Betty, like usual, and he plants his foot behind the door so she cannot push it open with her persistent sneer. “ **Good morning Mrs. Elliot--** ” He tries, he does try, but it’s **very** hard to be polite so someone as crass as Betty.

“ **Ya shouldn’t be lettin’ your damn cat out this early!** ” She’s loud, she probably shouldn’t be awake yet, and the headache he was hoping not to have today is threatening to tighten in the back of his neck. He ends up shutting the door in Betty’s face, manners be damned, and rescues his breakfast from being burned to death on his stove. He eats slightly overcooked eggs without tasting them, strokes Mary’s belly, and rushes after checking the clock. Betty is sure to yell at him as he leaves his apartment, his keys and Mary cradled in his hands and a gun hidden underneath the back of his jacket, and he ignores her. There was just a sprinkling of actual daylight when he goes outside that it was almost cheery, if not for the fact that there was also a sprinkling of rain.

* * *

He has no alarm clock rouse him, only the polite tapping at his door to wake him up. The curtains to his windows were drawn only partially, the light reflecting off the slight sheen of hand prints left on the window from the night prior, and he makes a foggy mental note to have them cleaned up. His bed partner was an exhibitionist at times, which had left her pressed to the cold glass for only his guards to see. They would never speak of it, they _knew_ better than that, and it eased his concern. He was **many** things, a voyeur included, but their line of work was truly too dangerous to be so open. He frets idly, tiny details bringing worried lines to his brow, and he takes time to rub at those lines. The knocking continues, gentle taps of knuckles against a heavy wooden door, the rhythm easily identifying that is was indeed one of his aid. It continues to a point it becomes _annoying_ , which is usually how this routine begins, and he sits up with a great heaving sigh and **finally** opens his eyes; it was high noon and he still rather hated mornings.

” **Come _in_ George.** ” Perhaps his voice was a touch on the loud side, annoyance and the slightly sharp edge of a night that had a _bit_ too much alcohol involved was weighing on his composure, and he curses his faulty censorship of such when he feels his bedmate stir. George enters quietly, his eyes respectful in regards to Lisa’s nudity, and he walks over quietly to the Capo’s side of the bed.

“ **What would you like for breakfast this morning sir?** ” It was no longer morning, by any stretch of the imagination, but he _always_ wanted breakfast. He sniffs, ponders the various options he has at his disposal, and grabs nearly blinding for the hair brush on his bed side table; George is kind enough to hand it to him.

“ **Eggs, and coffee, and--** ” His hair was a mess, his wheat toned waves snarled into incomprehensible curls from being so roughly abused between Lisa’s fingers, and his brush was stuck. He yanks it out, two strands of hair pulling free from his scalp, and the sunlight diffracts off their edges, and they sparkle like **gold**.

” **Lisa, _darling_.** ” He leans over Lisa, touches her shoulder and then her cheek, and touches her some more. She had her arm tossed over her face, her fingers dipping into her soft hair, and those same fingers were starting to clench. George was a patient man, it was in his _best_ interest to be, and he does not show any signs of possible impatience as the Caporegime tries almost _desperately_ to rouse his bed companion.

“ **Wh _at_.** ” Patting her shoulders and cheek were always the trick to rousing the dark haired woman, one sharp, turquoise colored eye opening to a slit so she could glare up at him.

“ ** _Darling_.** ” He frowns, his thin lips plummeting from the somewhat lofty expression of sleep spun delirium, and her glare only intensifies for return. His hand smothers itself over her shoulder, boney fingers spreading out over supple skin like a freshly cast net in a calm sea, and he leans over her just the slightest bit more; she sniffs as his hair was tickling the tip of her nose. “ **What would you like for breakfast?** ”

George closes the drapes before he leaves the room, the door opening just a touch more than before, which only shows the shoulders of the guards that flanked said door. Lisa takes her time getting up, which leaves the Caproregime time to finish brushing out his hair and take a leak. He doesn’t feel particularly _rushed_ to get ready for the day either, after all, the day waited on **him**. He takes _his_ time picking and choosing at his clothes, his fingers dancing over the outfits of wool all too delicately. Cream calls to him, it has him easing an outfit that has not seen much light as of late, the heavy wool ensemble surprisingly immaculate _considering_ what he has witnessed while wearing this suit.

He chances wrinkling his slacks by sitting down on the bed, picking at the spilled silk of Lisa’s hair, and easing her towards him. She is slow to _get_ up, but she is quite awake. Her mouth is warm against his, her teeth as sharp as her eyes, and he sucks in a breath as she catches his bottom lip. Her palm slides against his slack clad leg, grabs at his crotch, and draws away while leaving a whimper to quiver at his lips. She’s easing back, her fist loosening and the pressure easing, and he sucks in the breath she stole from him with relief. Her lips were sly even as her eyes were still sharp and he _knows_ that was a warning. For what though? He’d ponder about that later.

He was fiddling with his vest when George came back, one of the guards opening the door for the older man so he would not possibly tip his tray, the smell of fresh coffee and fresh eggs slapping the blond surely in the face. His stomach growls at the reminder of his fast, his lazy actions switching to something _much_ more eager. It won’t take him long to eat, which means he simply takes the tray into his lap as he settles back down on the bed, and he **devours** the meal. The Caporegime liked his toast _crisp_ , the edges browned to a shade that was just hinting at turning brown, and he liked it for the sole reason of how much more satisfying it was to each eggs with crisp toast. Lithe digits snag up a diagonally cut slice and he _stab_ the shiny yolks of his eggs, the pair of sunny side up delights weeping yellow as he twirls and scoops at their sunny ‘ _blood_ ’.

He washes the eggs down with coffee, the caffeine adding some sort of rush to his mood as Lisa slips back into bed from her shower, her palms gently closing around her glass of milk. The morning paper is pulled out of George’s jacket, which is offered to both of them, which is a needless formality; Lisa always would take it before him. George waited long enough to take back the tray, leaving Lisa with her milk glass and the paper, and leaving Rose with the file that had been tucked in his hands since he came in; the day was impatient.

He leaves Lisa in bed, kissing her between a pause of her nursing at milk and pondering messages strewn through the paper. He slips his jacket on, _forgets_ to button it as he pulls cane off the wall, and slips out his bedroom door. His guards duck their heads, _good mornings_ touch his back, his sloping smile and a wave of his free hand his only response as the cramped hall exaggerates his stoop and the stairs creaked under his bucks (type of a shoe). While upstairs had been quiet so he and Lisa could sleep the downstairs was not _quite_ as quiet. The blond could hear Elizabeth in the kitchen, she was fussing at her daughter, and George was on the hall’s phone. Most of his officers were already out working, leaving only his guard and skeleton crew of staff. Alisha was dusting and paid him little mind; he slides the tips of his fingers over the middle of her back just to hear her grumble at him as he passed. His office door was closed, the room cool as he broke the silence within by easing said doors open, and he flicks his cane up to tap the light.

The lights illuminated a messy pile of papers, his fedora sitting regally by the phone, and the framed saw that was hung behind his desk.

* * *

He spends most of the early afternoon at his desk, lunch filtering in after a few hours of number crunching and planning. His wrist feels stiff, undoubtedly because he or Lisa slept on it, and he takes enough time to sit back and rub the soreness from his wrist that there is _someone_ knocking on his door. This person doesn’t wait, the polished handle of the door turning down as a new source of light filtered into his office, and person walking in without _asking_ is all too familiar. The brunette was young, broad in the shoulders and long in the legs, and otherwise a bit awkward everywhere else. His eyes were dark, the puffy bags under his eyes didn’t help, and he mostly sprawls into one of the chairs that sits before the Capo’s desk. His suit jacket is unbuttoned, his suspenders loose and his guns peaking from behind his back, and there was a folder tucked under there was well. Retrieving the folder and handing it to the blond is all the brunette does before his head lolls back and the Capo allows him a nap for the ten minutes it takes him to read the contents of the folder.

The brunette does not snore, even with the horrible angle of his neck, and Rose is _quite_ thankful for that; he couldn’t stand people who snored. Reports from some of his other men were shuffled into the letters from the Boss and Rose’s fellow Capos were sprawled over his desk, violet eyes staring harshly at ever scribbled word over the slant of his nose. There was some troubling news, some sales were down and resistance was up in a few areas, but it was mostly good news. It was nothing to fret over, nothing to send his already exhausted main officer back out on the street, but he wakes him all the same; a sharp rap of the end of his letter opener as the man jerking up and awake. “ **So nice of you to join me _William_.** ” His Officer was coughing, rubbing at his eyes, and blinking easily five times as much as he should.

“ **Sir.** ” Rose was pressing his fingertips into his cheek, his thumb jutting out to support his jaw, and he _frowns_. His bored features darken as his lips tug down and William, the smart man he was, sits up straight and fixes his suit; it wasn’t wise to leave your boss unimpressed.

* * *

When Izuru first moved into the city, the last thing he’s _quite_ certain he would have thought about was getting into organized crime. Only the man so crippled and lame that not even a cane would straighten his back was allowed to drink anymore, which wasn’t a loss for the blond. Alcohol had never sat well on his stomach, his lithe form always bordering towards flat out _skinny_ over the years, and had left him prone to pains in the gut. That was the main reason he avoided the substance, for usually he would only blush and titter from a stiff drink, but he would never get quite drunk. He would never start yelling and fumbling about, not like Renji would, and he’s thankful enough for that; he wasn’t thankful that his friend was a light weight.

He never thought though, in all his years, that he’d be helping people _get_ drunk. He had moved to this city for what people would assume to be ‘ _a new start_ ’, and he let them believe that. His cat and his photo albums were just about the only valuable things he had to his name and it seemed to show. Money had run thin, his meals slimming in proportion with his waist, and it was desperation that _must_ have shown on his face that helped him land this— did he call it a job? Did he dare call **killing** people a job? Could he do that and still sleep at night? Well, he never slept exactly _well_ anyway, so he would call it a job; he didn’t believe in God enough to pray to him to forgive him. He would do this job, something so gross and _disgusting_ that it had been regulated down to a mere **kid** ( _he knew that’s what they called him; he listened more than he spoke_ ) to take care of it. He had already blown out the brains of at two men in the few months he had lived in the city and he took no pride in that.

His early morning out is a long one, his shoulders bumped and his shoes scuffed by busy people not looking where they walked, and him trying to weave through the throngs of those people was not actually helping. It gets better once he meets his contact, the burly man shouldering people away from the blond’s right, leaving him only his left side to defend. He catches the thin wrist of a childish pickpocket, the boy’s eyes bright with youth and hunger, and his contact grabs him by his coat and shoves him into a puddle on the street. He does not turn his head as he hears the boy crying, no one does; it was just some orphan after all. The boy eventually stops crying long enough to find the bill shoved into his clothes, the cash more than enough to get some food in the child’s stomach; Izuru was an orphan too.

He’s ordered to rough up some people who weren’t being prompt with their bills and run other errands, which actually includes bringing in an armload of food for one of the Officer’s wives. Her accent makes her hard to understand, but her hands upon his cheeks and the bowl of food soon shoved into his hands is fairly easy to translate. His job didn’t bring him _much_ money, enough for him and Mary to get by, but it was slim. He evidently had a good enough face, or some other quality, that kept some of the Officer’s wives on his side. He would run an errand for them, eat, and help in some way before he had to go out again. It had made sure he wasn’t as hungry as he would have been and that he wasn’t out right _disliked_ ; helping the wife would usually make the husband more lenient in attitude with him. Perhaps it is for this sole reason that he’s not sent from the table when several other men show up, their nice suits and tired eyes speaking well enough of their status to the blond; the pocket squares of various shades of violet would be enough to tip anyone off.

He’s only familiar with one of the higher ranked Soldiers at this point, the officer whose wife the blond had been running errands from. He’s the one that gestures for him to sit back down when he goes to move, to get up and leave his superiors to their own meal. Jackets are unbuttoned, guns are shifted or placed upon the table top, and plates were clattering as bowls full of steaming stew were set upon them. Spoons scrape at the dishes as the Officers talk, laughing and smiling, even as Izuru eyes the blood stained barrel of one of their guns. He eats in a much more subdued manner, his shoulders rolled in and his manners purposefully meek as he watches them, and it does not take him long to realize he’s being watched too.

“ **Who did you say this was Robby?** ” It was the tired looking brunette, his eyes dark and sharp as he gestured at the blond with his spoon. Izuru resists the urge to swallow compulsively, meeting that dark gaze head on and putting his spoon down, maintaining eye contact until Robert claps onto his shoulder and shakes him some.

“ **This’s Izuru; say hi to Billy, kid.** ” He complies, his tongue flicking out to wash over his lips before he tries to speak, and ‘ _Billy_ ’ waving him off before he can.

“ **Is he that kid you were talking about having the shit to fill up Down Boy’s spot?** ” Wait-- _what_. Robert is laughing, shaking his head some, and one of the other officers is laughing with him too; it wasn’t pleasant.

” **He’s a bag of bones Robby, you can’t really expect him to--** ” Someone was coughing, choking on a piece of stew evidently, and it disrupts conversation. He uses the disruption as an excuse to slip away, his stew mostly finished and his hole in his stomach filled with twisted and cramped butterflies; he would be okay until dinner. “ **Sit down kid,** ” he would finish his soup.

“ **He ain’t no skinnier than Boss was back when he and _the_ Boss first got rolling.** ” There’s a hum that moves around the table, the tone from each man varying from agreement to various levels of contemplation, and his stomach cramps with new butterflies.

“ **Still--** ” The brunette evidently named _Billy_ had been eating again, his spoon clattering extra loud in his dish as he lets it drop, and his napkin presses against his mouth only to leave without any stain.

“ **You should bring ‘em tonight.** ” More cutlery clatters, some of the other men pausing to divide a stare up between the brunette and himself, and he’s steeling himself to meet each direct gaze. He remembers how _important_ it was to make a good impression, to not show weakness as he stabbed a man to death, and he has to make sure he doesn’t seem weak here either. Gun and knives he could handle, but this— “ **Let Rose decide what _he_ thinks of him.** ” The noise of consensus passes its way around the table, Robert’s hand clapping him on the shoulder one last time before they all go back to eating, and Izuru’s stomach feels _tight_.

That wasn’t the first time he had ever heard Rose’s name.

 

It is well past dusk when he’s knocking at a heavy wooden door, the back door to the two story house looming over him. The front door was ornate, wood carved with a careful hand and stained in different colors to bring out the details; it had to have been _very_ expensive. He doubt that the back door isn’t comparable though, just from the thickness of it, something he sees clearly when the door is swung open and a gun is pointed at his head. He had been told to expect this, his flat cap off his head and in his hands, and the not that had been jotted down on a stiff piece of paper already extended out towards the guard. He does not blink at the gun in his face, though he releases his breath a bit shakily once it’s lowered, the guard frowning down at him. He’s ushered into the house, not a single word exchanged by him and the guard, and he’s pointed through the back kitchen area and towards the front.

He’s far from the first person there; the low din of several conversations going on at once lures him away from the back door and the untrusting guard and towards a front sitting room. He notices a few familiar faces, some of men who seem to be in a position more like his and some of the officers as well. They were all soldiers, but their responsibilities separated them quite clearly. The officers were drinking, their suit jackets unbuttoned and their shoulders relaxed as they lounged in the modest seating available. Most of the others stood, some holding a drink in their hands, most of them not. There was a tense feeling to the room, even with the low hum of conversation buzzing about, and it is more than understandable. He moves to stand next to one of his peers, the boy who is seemingly younger than him greeting him with a lacking tooth grin. He returns the expression with more shyness, his reserved nature adding to his modest persona, and he’s draw into small talk that has no purpose.

He feels like there is something about to happen tonight, something he can’t quite place his thumb upon, and it unsettles him. He’s more unsettled when an older man, evidently the Capo’s aid, gestures them to another room. That room is dark, lit only with a lamp near a wingback chair, and the lamp is not bright enough to fully illuminate just _who_ was in the chair. It’s easy to wager a guess however, considering how quiet the officers were. The brunet from before is standing next to the chair, the sleepiness of his features accented even heavier as shadows played out across his face. The tense air from before becomes brittle, and he almost wants to recoil from it all. He hangs back, the darker shadows near the book cases that flanked the walls latching onto his dim attire and securing him with slight obscurity. This was a room full of opportunity; it was also a room full of _danger_.

He remembers the first time he ever heard the Caporegime’s name and most every time after that. It was normally whispered, tosses between two conversing parties like a secret, but treated like a _lie_. He would hear it as he would walk past a pair of women on the street; “ _Isn’t Mr. Otoribashi so handsome?_ ” He would hear it as he sat down for a meal and there were businessmen nearby; “ **That Otoribashi is at it again.** ” The reactions to the name were mixed at best, some people throwing forth a smile at the mention, others drawing up a frown. He’s heard of some of the man’s traits, such as his taste in clothes, and the company he kept, but it was meaningless. He could tell by how the man stretched out his hand and set it down on the arm of the chair, showing off the heavy, ornate rings that weighed down upon his fingers, that there was more than he had heard. A _modest_ man would not dress so richly, or demand the service that suddenly breaks the tension in the air. A _kind_ man would not hire killers to kill for him, nor make them come forward and kneel before him. The small group of men takes turns in an order he does not understand, but he knows when to go. He knows when to swallow his opinions, to shuffle out of the shadows and into the lamp light, and to get down on one knee like a prospecting groom; he knows. He doesn’t know _exactly_ what to expect when he looks up, and even if he had, he doubts it would have prepared him for what he saw.

When he is closer to the lamp the light seems sharper, it seems to illuminate more, and it allows him to peer up at the Caporegime’s face. There were violet eyes staring back down at him, long golden waves trickling down the shoulders of the man’s suit, and his lips drawn in a bored line. He looked horribly unimpressed, but yet horribly **intense** , and the blond feels his gut twisting. He cannot bring himself to break that violet gaze, but he moves. He lowers his head down, closer to the lax hand he tentatively supports with his fingertips from beneath, and he catches his breath. He hopes he imagines the Capo’s eyes narrowing at him before he looks away, his head bowing so he may press a chaste kiss to the rings on the man’s hand, and the weight of his action crashes down on his shoulders. Where the Capo’s hand touches his skin _burns_ , just like the back of his neck and his ears, and he’s hasty in how he withdraws. He hopes he’s imagining the slight upturn of the Capo’s lips as he draws away, the shadows wrapping comfortably around him again.

There is an announcement and a small discussion, but it doesn’t really include him. The lower soldiers are sent away and he waits in the sitting room until he is fully dismissed. William, or _Billy_ as Robert called him, sent him off; his expression was strange. The blond rushes home, the dark streets chasing him down and the weight of the gun hidden in his jacket does not settle his nerves. His flat cap keeps the late night mist out of his eyes and shields his face as he ducks back into his apartment. He sleeps fitfully and wakes to an irritable cat, Mary meowing loudly to ensure he knew her distaste of his physically displayed anxiety. He licks his lips, washes his face, obscures his scar, and heads out to start working again. He expects a completely normal day, but the weight from the night prior returns. Robert claps his shoulder, smiles, and speaks all too clearly and carefully. ” **The Boss wants you to do something for him.** ”

A **good** man would never have a man of the faith killed, but the Caporegime was not a good man, and— anymore— neither was he.


	2. A Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A **good** man would never order to have a man of the faith killed, but the Caporegime was not a good man, and— anymore— neither was he.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of [Eline’s](http://landofshame.tumblr.com) delayed present package. Cross-posted [on tumblr](http://desespeir.tumblr.com/post/134008989162/title-tu-sei-quello-che-stavo-aspettando-you).

” **What is his name?** ”

Those words tumble out of his mouth: the **first** words to escape after the _meeting_. His left hand was cradled in his right; the weight of the rings seeming two fold in sensation. He’s been rubbing at his knuckles while his officers stood clustered about, George breaking the silence only with the clinking of glasses. There’s enough alcohol in the room to put a man to death, but it wasn’t being served. Only water is passed around; the clear glasses beading up with cool moisture on their outsides. The glass that is offered to him is ignored, his thumb working restlessly, impatiently, over his skin as he waits. He _waits_ ; his violet eyes sharp and expectant as they pass over his officers. One of them had given the boy the note that allowed him to come inside the house and thus _someone_ would know his name. If he didn’t know it meant the blond was still fresh meat; a newbie that had been plucked off the streets to start benefiting the business and ready to be thrown back into the gutters when his numbers didn’t match up. Someone _did_ know his name and that someone **would** tell him.

What finally breaks the silence is a cough, a low noise used to garner attention in conversation, and his gaze is drawn to the man who uttered the sound: Robert. “ **Kita.** ” Robert pauses, breathing in and taking a gulp of water, like a man about to perform a speech might. “ **He goes by Izuru Kita.** ” _Goes by_ ; what a dangerous choice of words. The bored expression that sprawls beneath the Caporegime’s intense gaze crinkles, his upper lip jutting out ever so slightly as his incisors descend upon the lower lip and _nip_.

” **What is his _real_ name?** ” Robert is a smart man, smart enough to hand his glass of water back to George, so he can free up his grip. Large hands undo the front of his jacket, a habit of his, because he hates the wrinkles left on his suit when he tries to reach into it unbuttoned. His gun is visible, the butt of it nasty and grooved from cracking one too many skulls, but he’s not reaching for it. A notepad is drawn out instead, the officer shuffling forward so as to get enough light to read whatever is on the pad.

“ **Found out that he _used_ to be Izuru Corvi, but it looks him and his family didn’t get along too well; he changed it.** ” That was better, his jaw relaxing in tiny increments as his tongue lolled about. The tip shoves it at his bottom lip, the self-soothing gesture making a trademark snuff bulge above his chin, and no one comments on it. He’s stopped rubbing at his knuckles; instead he is simply covering his left hand. He’s thinking; his shoulder rolling into the cushions of his chair and his eyes shifting. His gaze drifts away from Robert, a question welling up in his chest, and he’s _so_ proud of William picking up on it before he even asks.

” **Robby was sayin’,** ” a hand flicks into his field of vision, his main officer gesturing at the other officer almost _casually_. “ **That the boy’s got grit.** ” There is a cue, a cue that comes from experience and interaction, and Robert is stepping forward. He holds out his notepad for the Capo, the man’s scratchy, almost backwards handwriting afflicting the blond’s vision for a moment. He relinquishes his ring heavy hand, gently taking the offered information, and he draws it back into the gloomy shadow that the shape of his chair creates. “ ** _And_ ,**” a pause, no doubt for him to gesture for his officer to continue, which he does; “ **that he’s good to boot.** ”

” **He killed a snitch for me, to get recognized.** ” Robert is interjecting calmly, his fingers perpetually ashy in color from ink fiddling with his suit jacket, the buttons being slipped back and the fall of his attire fixed. “ **Gave him a knife to do it, but I don’t think he would have needed it.** ” The Capo is listening as he reads, his eyes flicking back and forth over scribbled words, unrelated notes, and heavily written sentences. Robert had a habit of pressing harder with his pencil when he was excited, or upset, and the latter did not seem to set a quiver in his hand. The dots of the officer’s ‘I’s were long, jutting down and up as they merged almost seamlessly into the next letter, and it’s only practice that has the Capo reading the hen scratch fluidly. “ **The snitch got his knife so Kita took a brick to his wrist.** ” That was in the notes; the officer’s scrawl bleeding into itself to a degree that the Capo’s brow furrowed as he read. “ **Stabbed the guy like thirty times before he had to take a breather,** ” the scrawl _sharpens_ suddenly, “ **And went back for ten more to make sure he was dead.** ”

 _Good_ is finely printed on the notepad and the Capo bites his tongue.

” **I told ‘im he should bring the kid,** ” William was moving in his field of vision now, the glass of water the Capo previously denied offered back out to him as he hands back Robert’s notes; this time he takes it. He relaxes his jaw, parts his lips to ease the cool liquid down the back of his throat, and he _thinks_. His left hand, the one that _Izuru_ kissed, has rested unmoving on his thigh since its release finally shifts. It lifts up, takes the glass out of his right, and a stretch of a boney finger towards his cigar box on his desk sends William walking.

“ **I see.** ” Did he have more to say? Most probably, but water would not loosen his lips; tobacco would. The box is handed to him next, the cedar wood container traded with the glass of water in his grasp, and he presses his thumbs onto the top. He does not keep his more lavish cigars in his office, or his more expensive boxes, and thus the top slides back easily beneath his touch. He stores only a few cigars in the box, the rest of the room filled up with cigarettes that were not as pristine and deemed unworthy of his cigarette case. The silver case was inside his jacket, quite within reach if he wanted, but he did not bother with it. The cigarette he plucks out is crooked, the paper oddly crinkled, and the quality only deters him in public. It would burn the same, which is proven when William obliges him with a light, the hiss of a match and the sharp scent of a flame tickling his senses as the tip of the cigarette is lit. He breathes the smoke in, his nostrils flaring with the first drag, and he releases the smoke with a lavish _rumble_. He slides the lid of his cigar box closed, the soft, scratchy sound of wood rubbing against itself filling the silence of the room, and the muted thud of the burned out match being thrown into the fire hearth seems to ring out like a _boom_.

” **Robert,** ” dark eyes flit up, the officer having been checking over his notes for some reason, but all his attention was back on him; “ **Tell Izuru I have a job for him.** ”

* * *

He had been sent on grocery duty again that morning, bustled in and out of Robert’s house by the burly man’s wife, and he’s _almost_ grateful. He doesn’t regret not having to stand about as a reminder to certain people to behave, and to pay, but it makes him nervous. All his tossing and turning from the night before has his stomach a little uneasy, his oatmeal for breakfast sitting awkwardly in his gut, so every step he takes shakes him some. He should add a little pep and spark into his actions though, make his steps jaunty and force color into his face, because it would get him better deals. Smiling flattering to the young lady at the bakery got him the better bread loaves and not stooping and huddling got him less questions at the grocery. It was a nuisance, the presentation of faces he didn’t really carry, but necessary; _all_ too necessary.

He manages something that is halfway between ‘ _gloomy and distraught_ ’ and ‘ _cheery and calm_ ’ while attending to his errands, his higher steps and gentle smiles disappearing once his arms were loaded with paper sacks. He could easily shove the bag with the bread into the arm that carries the bag of cans, but he might squish the bread. Robert’s wife didn’t like the bread mushed up unnecessarily, unless of course he was being sent out to buy some stale loaves to make crumbs out of. Bringing back pristine groceries would bring such a smile to her face, her dark eyes still shiny and bright with life he didn’t quite see in most of the other normal occupants in her house, and her rough palms would always chap a cheery glow to his cheeks. He still had to wonder what it was with mothers and the pinching of cheeks.

He still contemplates putting the bread in his other arm though, leaving his right arm loose and free, because he’s suddenly got a bad feeling. It’s a nagging sensation in the back of his head and it was coupling with the unrest in his stomach, which eased neither very well. He felt like he should go into the alleyways and cut his walk short, which would seem like backwards logic to most. Thugs and other people who weren’t the best for a _young man_ like **him** had a habit of hanging out in the alleys, smoking and conversing about themselves. Some of those men were just lookouts, he knew a few were sent out to stand in the cold and keep an eye on things. He didn’t know their names, but he knew how they would hold themselves. He could get past them with ease, but that wasn’t the problem.

Darting into an alleyway now would probably seem shifty, especially since he wasn’t really in a residential area, so he shoulders on. The puddles along the side of the road cast a bright reflection of his drab attire up at him, his slacks looking wrinkled in the ripples and his face looking drawn. He doesn’t dwell on how unflattering that image is, because he **knows** he looked fairly presentable; he had double checked this morning. Looking good hadn’t always been a goal of his, but it was almost a necessity now. Keeping the shabbiness from his form would benefit him, he knows; he’s been told this more than once.

The puddles that create unflattering images of him are suddenly disturbed, the crunch of stray gravel from the asphalt melting into the splash of water that the puddle makes. Rubber tires support the wheezing frame of a familiarly shaped car, but he has to look twice at it regardless. The police car was moving slowly, the water from the puddles along the sidewalk sloshing around the wheels, but not wholly splattering; he’s grateful. He does take a few cautionary steps from the curb though, hoping to keep his slacks as dry as possible, but also to not look too self-absorbed or too scared. Acting squeamish in front of cops was never a smart move, which is why he makes sure he relaxes his grip on the bags in his arms. The passenger window on the police car was rolling down, what he assumes is a deputy leaning back once he was done fighting with the crank, and the blond can feel his stomach _flop_ some as he looks inside.

” **’Ey kiddo~** ” The voice that comes with those words is oddly drawn out, almost high in pitch, and excessively lax. It is one thing to slur words together, especially when you were comfortable, but this was just— _unnecessary_. The degree of emphasis on how words blend together is horribly off putting, just like the lazy grin that is on the features of the man who spoke them. His head is bowed some, his temple almost brushing the steering wheel of the car as he squints out through the open window, and the awkwardness of the position would make most people simply look silly. He looks gaunt though, his spine showing on his neck and his throat drawn tight, almost as if he wasn’t healthy, or didn’t have enough food to eat. The badge that seems to be about two finish levels more expensive than the badge his companion in the passenger seat wears would falsify such an assumption. He stops dead in his tracks, holding still as the police car rolls to a stop, and shifts his weight. Standing there makes him only more aware of the gun he hides in his clothes.

The radio in the car is playing softly, the tune something he can’t quite catch, only interrupted with the static of an occasional message. There are some brown bags on the dashboard of the car, probably filled with the lunches the two officers would eat, but that wasn’t a guarantee. “ **Y’er lookin’ kinda jumpy out there; everything al _right_ ~?**” It was the officer in the driver’s seat again, his head still ducked down and his squinting gaze still focused upon him. He had very pale hair, the color almost matching his lackluster skin tone, and it makes his clothes seem all the more dark for it. Or perhaps it was the clothes that made the man seem more pale? He wasn’t sure.

” **Everything is fine sir.** ” He tries to keep his voice light, keep it at a level that sounded subdued with sleepiness and not tense with apprehension, and he’s pretty sure he nailed it. The brunet sitting in the passenger’s seat was shifting around, looking obviously unimpressed by this whole exchange. The pale haired officer was flicking the radio’s volume down a few notches, his attention zeroing in on the blond, and it makes his lousy breakfast creep up his throat. He shifts his weight again; masking the action by adjusting the bags in his arms, and feels the gun against his back shift again. The jacket he was wearing over his sweater was hiding the bulge the gun would make, but that wasn’t entirely comforting at the moment.

” **Yeah?** ” The man’s voice was unsettling, _somehow_ , which only encourages him to nod and to try to get away. A hum from between pursed lips barely makes it out of the cab of the car, but he can guess at it, just judging by the look on the man’s face. He seems thoughtful about the response, the idling engine steaming slightly in the chilly morning air, and the Made Man contemplates on just how wasteful it was of the officer to let the car run like this. “ **W _ell_.** ” The grinding of a shifting gear makes him jump some, a smile playing on thin lips of the pale haired officer and an amused snort working its way out of the officer sat beside him. “ **If y’er sure kiddo. Y’a got our number if it ain’t~** ” It was a _horrible_ joke, one that made his lips thin out into a faint frown, and that really makes the brunet officer snort. The window rolls up as the car rolls away, the blond taking a few more steps back from the curb to keep his slacks dry, and he watches them go.

The tune that was playing on the car’s radio is stuck in the back of his head, replacing the apprehension he had felt before, and it resonates like a toothache. He resists the urge to pull at his sore molar just to encourage some distracting pain and simply hurries on. He does not get to see the laugh or the grin from the pale haired officer, nor the query shoved at him from the deputy that was making rounds with him. “ **He’s fresh meat if I ever seen it.** ” They both laugh, enjoying the warmth of that car while the blond cuts through an alley and heads back to the safe house, his flat cap keeping the sun off his pale face and keeping his side swept bangs firmly in place.

* * *

He’s eating when Robert shows up for lunch, the larger man walking into the kitchen exactly on time, because his wife already has a plate ready for him. The Officer gets something a bit more impressive than the sandwich he devours, but he doesn’t mind. Some of the juices from the roast that is simmering on the stove had been poured over the chunks of beef that had been slapped together between two pieces of bread, which made it at least two steps up from the food he had been fixing himself the past week. His pantry was running lean again, just as he was, and he knows Mary is going to meow and nag at him to go shopping within a day or so. Without a wife, or a mother, to nag at him he only had his cat, which he was mostly grateful for. Robert’s wife was a very nice woman, her smiles sweet and her cooking good, but she was also pretty scary. Waking up to a cat yowling was scary enough; he didn’t need to wake up to a woman’s shouting.

He mulls over nothing as he eats, taking his time on the sandwich in his grip, and he almost doesn’t notice Robert sit down almost right next to him. The squeak of a chair being pulled back from the table doesn’t mean much to him, not until the gentle clatter of a plate being put down and the grunt of a businessman undoing his jacket reaches his ears. Blue eyes slide over the textured wood of the table in the kitchen, the edges worn with age and the finish flecked with abuse, and land on the gun that is pulled out of its harness and settled down next to the plate. He swallows slowly, watching as a notepad comes next and eventually a pen that no doubt had been stuck in the Officer’s suit pocket and forgotten. He waits, anticipation flaring to life like a wave of heartburn, and _forgets_ how to breath for a moment. Just a minute though, because Robert had simply been divesting himself of unnecessary equipment, and was digging into his meal.

He relaxes despite his better judgement.

They eat in companionable silence, the kind of quiet that good bonds could form within, only broken with interjections from Robert’s wife. She slaved over the stove, or perhaps he should say the stove was her slave, considering how it groaned and creaked every time she prompted it to work harder for her. The smell of gas burning was not off putting, only for the fact that it was controlled, and heavily masked by the smell of cooking meat. Bread was rising on the far end of the counter, ready to be chunked into the oven once it was time, and turn light and crisp beneath inescapable heat. He liked the bread here, but that was probably because it was sweeter than the bread he can afford, and fresh. He finishes off the last bite of his sandwich, laments that the bread waiting for him at home had already gone hard and stale, and moves to get up. He has the plate in his hand, which he will wash and put on the drying rack, just to be polite. Instead he drops it, lets it clatter back to the table top ( _it doesn’t break, thank **god**_ ), all out of the shock of the hand closing tight on his shoulder.

Robert still has a mouthful of food that he was working on, but he smiles while he chews. His fingers, darkened from what the blond can _assume_ to be years of working with a printing press ( _or guns_ ), were white at the knuckles. The grip was tight, warning, and he takes the warning to heart. He sits back down, glances sheepishly at the man’s wife, who was eying him critically for dropping her plate, and faces Robert again. The older man takes his time to chew and swallow, clearing his throat and licking at his teeth, before he flashes a full smile. It was forced, too light and airy for the grip that has not relented in the slightest, and he wonders how dark the finger shaped bruises will be the next morning.

” **Relax Kid.** ” There is an edge to his tone, but it is still at least openly friendly, which is better than some things. The hold on his shoulder finally relents, all so the Officer can clap him on the shoulder and back, and he flinches. Robert lets him go, his hand falling idly in his lap, and he weighs his options and their consequences. He takes a risk, reaching up to rub at his smarting shoulder, and Robert’s smile does not fall. In fact, Robert’s smile doesn’t change at all. This was bad. ” **The Boss wants you to do something for him.** ”

This was **very** bad.

* * *

The church itself was nothing exceptional, considering where it was located, and the donations it received. It was small, tucked away where real estate was poor, and looked admittedly shabby. The roof had seen better days, the windows look painted, not stained, and the entry door was scarred from unforgiving seasons. It _was_ a sturdy entry door though; it was heavy enough that he struggled to close it behind him with the wind pulling against him. The gusts outside had successfully ruined the warmth of his lunch and cut him right through his threadbare coat and down to the bone. His scarf was wet either from the drip of his nose or the spiteful drizzle outside and his fingers were red from the chill. A lovely afternoon for him to seek refuge in a beat down, if warm, church.

There was no donation box in the entry hall, as he had expected, but a small prayer box. Or-- perhaps prayer box wasn’t the right word. Lightly crumpled pieces of paper filled the box, their edges studiously straightened, even though it was obvious they had been gripped too tightly in too many hands. There was coffee stains on a few of the pages, stains he wasn’t sure about on others, and even a touch of makeup. He wonders what would consume someone with a great enough need to kiss a piece of paper, or rub it at their eyes, but he remembers where he is. Faith was not something lost on him, merely muted.

There is a foot step down the hall, a click of a heel that suddenly falls silent, and he makes a point to ignore it. He takes his time, instead, looking at the ‘prayer’ box, and pretends he doesn’t hear the carefully slow and quiet steps coming towards him. He reaches into the box, brushing his fingers along the bottom, and promptly removes his hand. One of the pieces of paper falls out as he tries to move away, fluttering gently to the floor, and he stoops to pick it up. The print at the top, “ **LEVITICUS 24:17** ”, catches his eye. The woman who had been ‘creeping’ up on him will only catch him smiling and neatly placing the sheet of paper back into the box; all the while brushing fine white dust off his fingertips.

” **Do you need some help…?** ” She’s not hesitant, by any means, with her projected voice and brightly colored clothes. She’s polite though, giving him the moment he needs to collect himself and take off his hat _(he had forgotten to take it off before when he first came in)_ and give her a polite nod of his head in return.

He lets the dryness of his lips spur on the nervous movement of his tongue, a swipe across his lower lip helping soothe parched surfaces, and visibly driving the nervous energy home. “ **I was hoping I could speak--** ” He coughs, and manages to _sneeze_ as well, before he can finish his sentence. “ **Pardon me; I was hoping I could speak to the pastor.** ” His interrupted confession is met with a stern gaze, dark eyes giving him a strong once over that was nearly as biting as the wind was, and he exposes the long, dark _mark_ on his face by reaching up to unwind his scarf and knocking back his fringe some; it works.

The woman _finally_ breaks a smile, one that is too inviting and warm to be completely genuine. Maybe it could be considered a motherly smile, but he doubts it. He’s seen that kind of smile one too many times to be drawn easily into its warmth. He hurriedly smoothes down his hair, hiding away the flaw on his cheek, and lets her smile at him like a lion would to a lamb. “ **Pastor Mondt is in the middle of service right now, but you can wait until the service is over, or you can come back.** ” She doesn’t gesture towards the door when she says this, which means _you should stay_ , and considering the wind outside? He’s wholly too happy to oblige that thought. So he drags up his smile, tight in the eyes and gaunt in the throat, and peeks from side to side underneath his fringe. Her smile gets wider for a moment, but she ratchets it down; he saw it though. He’s done this dance before.

When she beckons him deeper into the church he shoves his hand in his pocket and wipes the rest of the _giggle dust_ off against the unlined wool.

* * *

He ends up waiting outside the main hall, sitting on an uncomfortable bench with a coffee mug cradled between his hands, and listens to the service. The exact words roll off of him, his eyes flicking between the doors and the clock, and occasionally the woman who tries to sneak a glance at him from around the corner. The service ends with songs, the off key music of the organ somewhat masked by the congregation of even more off key worshippers, and the buzz of normal conversation helps break the uncomfortable echo of the near silence. He abandons the coffee mug, still full but no longer hot, and disappears into a side room before the doors can open. The side room was actually a closet, a dark closet, but it would do. He’s been in more uncomfortable positions before.

The buzz of conversation takes a while to die down, probably around an hour or more, and he winds his scarf tighter around his nose to stave off the bored chill that creeps up his spine. The buzz rings in his ears even as the voices drift away, only a few voices left, and then finally none. There was only the tapping of heels on the floor, the sounds of someone stopping and starting over and over again. He waits until the annoyingly loud clicking of those heels disappear, going off down the hall, indicating that the woman from before has gone on her way in continued search of him. Ah, oh well; her mistake.

The sun had finally decided to take pity on them, momentarily showing its face through the wind and clouds, and its light was tumbling in through the windows. He was right, before, about the windows: they weren’t stained, but painted. The painting was nice, at least, and done with some amount of care, but it was old. It was fading, chipping, and adding an unpleasant orange glow to the air in the congregation hall. The dust particles that dangled lazily in the air were painted like small, odd oranges in the off color light, which conflicted horribly with the musk that stood stagnant in the hall. The musk being the remains of too many muddled perfumes drifting away from their lady’s necks. It was stifling in the room, in the oddly orange light, and lonely, but not quiet.

The pastor was at the organ, hitting keys too quickly and suddenly to be considered playing, but he didn’t seem to be interested in making music. The tuning process was a loud one, a tedious one, and he hangs back for a while at the end of the pews, just so he could watch him. The man seems oblivious to him though; his brow furrowed and his eyes squinted horribly. He had heard that the pastor was losing his eyesight, due to old age, along with his mobility. The cane and glasses seemed to validate that, even if it hardly mattered; it merely meant that the rumors were true.

He has to clear his throat once he gets close to the man, his fist warmed barely by the sharp exhale of his moist breath, and he can momentarily smell the garlic on his breath from the roast gravy that had been on his sandwich. He ignores the smell, how it creeps up his nose and stays there, making the musk of the room that much more unbearable, because the pastor was turning around. He twists on the bench in front of the organ, his fingers curling into the ivory keys, making the beast of an instrument _wheeze_ in the quiet. Aha, so **that’s** how he played the music earlier.

A smile breaks out over the pastor’s mouth, finally, and reveals aged, but intact, teeth. “ **Hello there! You must be the boy that Betty told me about.** ” Of course the woman had warned him that he was here, _somewhere_ ; he should have expected it. All he can do is nod, his eyes darting about the room, and lingering for a moment too long on the door. Mr. Mondt’s smile becomes larger, another lion grin turned towards him, and he wrings the hat he holds in his hands to continue posing as the lamb. “ **Come here, sit; there’s no need to be so uptight.** ” A wrinkled hand is gesturing to the pew that is closest to the organ, offering them an impromptu meeting, but he can’t take it. He looks around the room one more time, spots the exit door that was off to the far right, and shakes his head.

” **I’m afraid I can’t do that.** ”

He wrings the hat in his hands a few more times, letting the words settle on the pastor’s mind, and follows a spec of orange dust with his eyes. “ **Does that mean you wanted to see me for a confession?** ” He’s more guarded now, but his smile sticks to his leathery cheeks, and the tenacity is interesting. Not impressive, or endearing, but interesting. He nods slightly, a hum dragging across his breath, which gets him the same sweeping gesture of the older man’s hand as before; he ignores it. He fixes his cap, delicately peels out the piece of paper that had been hiding in one of the inner creases, and drags it forward. It’s a shame that the man’s eyesight was failing.

“ **I have more of a question, than a confession, actually.** ” He fiddles with the paper, eyes flicking between its surface, Mr. Mondt, and the side door. The man is no longer smiling, but his brow was furrowed, and he was reaching for his cane. He takes a step forward, reaches out with his foot, and knocks the cane over. The clatter of the wood is sharp, echoing in the somewhat large hall around them, and it wipes any trace of a smile off the man’s face. He extends the paper out to him, even as he undoes a button of his jacket, and releases the tension off the middle of his back. “ **I was wondering,** ” He lets his jacket fall open as the man brings the slip of paper closer. “ **Why you hadn’t,** ” The gun harness is obvious now, standing stark against his undershirt, and his gun is barely warm from being pressed up under his arm for several hours; he grabs it anyway. He drags it out as the man’s expression switches to a familiar sort of horror; his eyes wide and his glasses pushed high up his nose so he could make out the symbol carefully inked on the piece of paper. “ **Paid your _debts_.** ”

“ **Now son--** ” He’s trying to stand, reaching for his cane, and the flailing hand is ignored in favor of cocking back the hammer of his gun. He does not attempt to hold the gun single handedly, but his supporting hand is loose, and ready to grab at the man should he need to. The room was too large, still echoing from the crack of the falling cane from before, and the nervous wheezing now coming out of the pastor’s mouth.

“ **Sit down Mr. Mondt.** ” He does not raise his voice, or reach out, but the man acts like he’s been slapped. He slumps back down on the bench, his eyes still wide, and his expression settling into the horror. Realization seems to creep up on people in stages, usually starting with denial and ending in acceptance; Mr. Mondt seemed to be stuck on disbelief. “ **You should have put in a donation box in the entry hall, not an _’exchange’_ box.** ” The heroin will need to be washed out of his coat now, by hand, but that wasn’t a huge deal; he had to scrub out specs of blood and gunpowder fairly regularly now. The drugs were not something he was interested in, or the Caporegime was interested in, but the lack of payment was; it was obvious Mr. Mondt had been hiding his other wallet.

“ ** _Listen._** ” His voice is higher now, nervous, and shaking in time with his shoulders. He was on the ‘bargaining’ stage of realization now, it seemed. “ **I can pay, I am good for my word, I just--** ” His eyesight wasn’t so poor to know when a gun was being shoved into his face.

“ **Need more time?** ” The last man who had tried that line had then tried to stick a meat hook in his face and had missed; he had been thankful for the drain in the floor helping remove the excess blood on the floor. “ **You are already _two_ months behind, Mr. Mondt; how more time do you need?** ” He lets the barrel of his gun warm itself up against the man’s wrinkled forehead, his eyes no longer wide, but squeeze tightly shut; there were tears rolling down his face. “ **Enough time to abandon your _’flock’_?** ” He had been listening to the service, somewhat, but now he ignores the sob coming out of the man’s mouth. There was no way to earn the sympathy of a Made Man, after all.

“ **I can make the payment; I can. I just need a little more time. One more exchange and--!** ” He’s now in the ‘desperation’ stage of realization, which is the most animated, and the most tedious. He reaches out towards him, tries to pull the gun off his head _(and out of his grip)_ , and he evades. He draws back, just for a moment, and stoops down. The cane on the floor is made of solid wood, was thick and study, and does not break when he brings it down on the bench seat next to the pastor. The splintering of wood crackles in his ears, makes the orange tinted particles rush away, and the man’s rambling stops; good. He had been here too long as it was.

“ **Turn around Mr. Mondt.** ” He lifts the cane from the damaged bench, giving him _room_ to do as he is told, and tosses it aside. It thuds quietly on the strip of carpet that runs through the center of the pews, leading out to the main doors, and signalling the last path of freedom the man might of had. The other door led to the alley, not to the office, and there would be no way to make up his debt in an alley. This wouldn’t make up for his debt either, but that was fine; a warning to the community would be enough.

“ **I want you to play your favorite song Mr. Mondt.** ” The man was crying openly now, a hiccup making his trembling hands shake worse, and the first notes of said song were atrocious. The tuning from earlier seemed to help though; considering that through all the shaking and mistakes the music _actually_ sounded better. Maybe he was just too close to the loud noise to hear how off key it might be though; he couldn’t be sure. All he was sure of was that the gunshot was not as loud as the organ, the music wailing and slumping into a long wheeze of a premature end. The pastor’s bowed head on the keys extended the last long sigh of the organ’s music; their collective _death rattle_. His ears were ringing, but his hand was steady, and there wasn’t even a spec of blood on his clothes. He almost wants to pat himself on the back.

The sudden, unexpected clapping and garishly cheeri _’ **bravo** ’_ kills that desire _entirely_.


End file.
